


Pleases and I'll-Do-Anythings

by jem4water



Category: Australian Comedy, Doug Anthony All Stars
Genre: Crying, Death, Love, M/M, Wine, church, faith - Freeform, short piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jem4water/pseuds/jem4water
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and the virgin seems to be staring down at him with her piercing eyes and he cannot bear to see her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleases and I'll-Do-Anythings

He doesn't know why he is here. The smooth wood is cold and hard beneath him, and digs into the flesh of his back when he rests upon it. His feet feel frozen upon the ground; they are tense in his boots, as if ready to run. If he is honest with himself, perhaps he expects himself to run. He was never meant for this place anyway. He had gone over ten years without feeling the need to step foot inside this building, and supposes he could have gone another ten years, but things change, and things come up.

He is weary. It has been a long week and he has not had time to sleep; his hands are stained with oil paint that won't wash off, blues and whites and spots of red that catch his eye in the moonlight that shines in through the stained glass. It throws muted colour over everything, and the virgin seems to be staring down at him with her piercing eyes and he cannot bear to see her. He casts his eyes away from her judging gaze and stands up. His keeps his gaze low, on the shining floor below him, and makes his way forwards. It is quiet here, and his boots thud on the ground and echo off the high-ceilinged walls. Things move and rustle in the rafters but he does not care. His mind has time and room for one man only, and Paul struggles to keep his image at the forefront, right behind his eyes where he can see it always. He has reached his place now, and lowers himself to his knees, quietly, tiredly, and reaches out past paper-mâché skin and stigmata.

And he takes the chalice in his hands and feels the silver, raised under his thumbs, and begins to sip the tangy contents, the holy blood. Unexpectedly, half a mouthful comes up as he lets forth a loud sob, a movement which seizes his whole body and forces taught the cold skin of his back. And so the wine burns his throat and forces warm tears from his tightly closed eyes, and he cannot breathe, must save his breath for Christ, who perhaps may see the good in Paul and give him what he wishes and cries for in that empty chapel. His pleading is quiet but strong, a steady stream of pleases and I'll-do-anythings, of bring-him-backs and never-agains and please-oh God-pleases, until his breath catches in his throat and all he can do is drop the chalice with a clang and cry with his hands pressed against that cold floor.

Behind him, he feels a rush of chilling night air as the church doors open and he hears quiet, slow footsteps behind him. His heart stops for a moment as he wonders if God has made true his wish, as he pleads silently in his head and hopes and hopes. He aches to feel those long fingers grip lovingly his shoulder again, feel those plump lips upon his neck, but deep inside his heart, he knows he never will. Warm fingers lay themselves on his shoulder, and it is no shock when Paul turns his head slowly and meets Richard's watery gaze, takes in the tense lips and furrowed brow of his friend. He presses his face into Richard's warm chest, the soft, clean shirt gentle against his tired skin, and begins to cry in earnest as he feels arms wrap tightly around him, and Richard whispers quietly and understandingly in his ear, 'There's nothing you can do, Paul. He's gone.'


End file.
